A Dream That Will Last Forever
by eleanoralovesananias
Summary: Prequel to "A Love That Will Last Forever," but you don't have to read "A Love That Will Last Forever" first. France x Joan of Arc. Implied violence. Human AU. This is the story of young Francis Bonnefoy and his first love. Two children who thought they would never be parted. Alas, Fate had other plans.
1. Dead Grey House Lights A Candle

Dead Grey House Lights A Candle

The day that Francis Bonnefoy came into the world was a day like any other, despite what he said when he was older. Perhaps the sun shone a little brighter than yesterday, maybe the grass was a little fresher. But that's for you to decide.

A fat woman wrapped in dirty gray rags wailed louder than the baby she was about to bring forth. Her round, reddish cheeks were a shade of burgundy now; her forehead, which sagged and pushed her eyes down in a perpetual squint, dripped with sweat.  
The baby pushed its way down and landed on the floor. A girl of perhaps ten swooped in and ripped off the umbilical cord with her teeth. Her face was wider than it was tall, with muddy eyes like her parents and a rat's nest of curly orange hair. She spat out the cord and shoved the baby into her father's arms. It was too slimy. She hated slimy things.

The father stared down at his newest child. The baby looked back up into his eyes without guile, taking in the sagging cheeks, the lipless mouth hard from years of scowling, and the thick eyebrows the boy would later learn to hate and fear. The man grunted, "Small." That was it. Short, cold, curt. That was Father.


	2. Ugly World Cannot Control Rainbows

Ugly World Cannot Control Rainbows

Francis was now eleven years old, and he had always been a little... different. The other boys fought with each other and ate whatever they could, whenever they could. They beat up delicate, long-haired, dreamy Francis all the time. The girls, the ugly, freckled, mean-spirited girls who wore their dresses too short and swore a lot, ridiculed him and stole his things. Adults looked at him funny as he drew fanciful images of a colorful world and beautiful ladies. His own father beat him.

But he kept dreaming. He kept looking up at the sky and thinking how beautiful it was, drawing pretty things, looking at pretty things, touching pretty things, and even on occasion stealing pretty things. He had a secret stash in the barn of beautiful things, and he went there and looked at them when ever he was sad.

Besides dreaming, drawing, and collecting pretty things, Francis's other pastime was combing his hair. He let his thick black hair, dark as a raven's wing, grow out, and considered it his only truly handsome feature. Someday he would be beautiful, he promised himself. Someday people would love him. For now, he grew his black hair out long, and combed and washed it every day, and dreamed of beauty.


	3. Blue-Eyed Girl Tells Dreams

Blue-Eyed Girl Tells Dreams

Francis Bonnefoy was thirteen and a half years old. He was sitting by the stream, combing his long black hair and singing. He sang a mournful, warbling tune that he had learned from a traveling performer. It would be far more beautiful if he had a violin, Francis reflected, but that sort of thing was out of his reach. For now, the river was his instrument.

Rustling in the bushes made him stiffen. He could hear the heavy footsteps of the other boys, and now that he listened, the ugly giggling of the girls was audible. Slowly, he stood and faced them, his beautiful black hair sliding though the air like silk. He couldn't fight them, but he would take the beating gracefully, if nothing else. He just hoped they wouldn't cut his hair again. It had taken him months to regrow it last time.

Four hulking, scarred boys stomped out of the bushes, their cruel grins revealing missing teeth. Behind them some seven or eight ugly, fat girls followed, giggling repulsively, their filthy hair and sickly skin crisscrossed by bruises and scars, clear marks that they would show no mercy, as none had been shown to them.

Francis took a deep breath and closed his eyes, waiting for the pain. He could feel the freezing shadow of the largest boy, feel him raising his meaty hand...

_Snap!_ _Crack!_ _Whack!_ _**WHUMP!**_

Francis opened his eyes tentatively. All four boys were on the ground, one unconscious, the other dragging themselves away with tears running down their filthy cheeks. All that remained of the girls were hurrying footsteps in the mud. Surprised, confused, and slightly afraid, he turned to his rescuer - and stopped in awe.

It was a girl, no older than himself, but a girl - oh, a girl! - a girl like none he had seen before! Her hair was blacker and shinier than even his own, and braided artistically back with sweeping curls and lovely yellow ribbons! Her skin was like delicate ivory, and _clean_, no trace of the filth found on the other girls' faces, or the awful purplish bruises that Francis himself sported. She was tall, slender, and graceful, with eyes so _blue_, and so _bright_, like the sky on a sunny day!

Francis fell on his knees and cried, "O fairest girl of heaven's dreams!" It was the most he could come up with, and a sorry speech compared to men's proclamations of love in the fairy tales he loved so much, but his shining eyes said the rest.

The girl laughed. Her beautiful eyes sparkled with the light of a thousand suns, and Francis felt touched by an angel. "I see you too have a love for beauty," she twinkled. "The name's Joan. Joan of Arc."


	4. Golden Lady Dances Away

Golden Lady Dances Away

Joan and Francis embraced, weeping like children - which they weren't, anymore. Joan was fourteen years old, and Francis was fifteen. They had lived two years together, loving, learning, laughing, and _living_ like they never had before. They loved each other. Each had only one friend, and that was the other. But it was time for them to part.

Their beloved country of France, the existence of which they were only dimly aware of, was at war. The idea of a war was far too staggering to comprehend, and still more awful was the idea that if lost, it would result in their whole way of life being wiped out.

Thus, Joan was going to fight.

Technically, by the word of law, she was not allowed to take up arms. But she was going to anyway. Her beautiful long hair was cut short - Francis had insisted upon keeping the poor dead locks. Her lovely, slender, graceful figure was concealed in a man's armor, and her capable hands, the one aspect of her features she had allowed to be roughed, now held a sword, not a flower.

And Francis missed her already more than he could say.

Francis, for his part, was going to the city. Neither of them knew the name of the city, or exactly what a city was, for that matter, but they knew it was a beautiful place where princes and ladies lived. Thus, it seemed like the perfect place for the youth to find beauty, and to wait for his fair maiden.

Because she would come. She would live, for him, and she would come.

_**THE END**_

_P.S. The next prequel, "A Joy That Will Last Forever," is coming soon!_


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